Pittsburgh-Caracas?

a Noir

Israel Centeno

Tombo’s boots thudded against the worn wooden steps as he ascended to his apartment in Pittsburgh, where he lived in exile. Each creak of the staircase marked his progress, a rhythmic reminder of the day’s weariness. The second-floor landing welcomed him with familiar Boston-style railings, their flaking white paint and ornate flourishes like something straight out of a Henry James novel. He paused for a moment, hand resting on the cool metal, letting the nostalgia wash over him.

The door to his apartment gave a customary groan as it swung open, revealing the modest living space that served as his sanctuary from the chaos of his profession. Tombo kicked off his shoes at the threshold, the echo of leather hitting hardwood mingling with the sigh that escaped his lips. This room, though small, was replete with the essentials of his solitary existence—a testament to his Spartan lifestyle and the demands of his badge.

To the left, a stack of well-thumbed paperbacks perched precariously on a shelf. Henry James’ rich prose beckoned, the spines creased from countless revisits during those stolen moments of peace. Tombo’s eyes traced the titles, each one a gift from his late father, whose love for literature rivaled his commitment to law enforcement. With a twinge of longing, he thought of the quiet hours spent lost in those pages, a respite from the grind of detective work and the weight of expectation.

He shrugged off his jacket, feeling a mix of relief and disappointment. It was nice to finally be home after a long day of frustration, but it also meant facing the reality of his less-than-ideal living situation. Despite his best efforts, his apartment still felt like a barren wasteland with minimal amenities.

As he made his way to the kitchenette, he couldn’t help but notice the single bottle of vodka on the counter. It was tempting, especially after a day filled with dead ends and bureaucratic obstacles. His fingers almost reached for the familiar amber liquid, but he resisted. He knew that giving in would only lead to more problems.

The recliner in the corner beckoned to him, a symbol of comfort in an otherwise sparse and uninviting space. As he sunk into its embrace, he couldn’t help but feel conflicted. On one hand, it was his throne, a place where he could escape from the outside world. But on the other hand, it was a reminder of his lack of luxury and resources.

As he closed his eyes and let himself relax, Tombo couldn’t help but think about the puzzles and mysteries that awaited him in his dreams. They were just as unsolvable as the ones in his waking life, a never-ending cycle of challenges that left him feeling both fulfilled and drained.

Tombo leaned against the wall, remembering the moment he presented the evidence to the commissioner: the intricate web spun by a former mayor of Caracas, encompassing the dark arts of Santería, the gritty underworld of drug trafficking, and the primal savagery of territorial fights overlaid with a sheen of seduction. It was a potent cocktail, one he had distilled drop by drop, only to have it dismissed with a bureaucratic wave.

A heavy sigh escaped him as he moved away from the wall, his feet carrying him to the window where he could see the city of Pittsburgh sprawling before him. Somewhere out there. He recalled the details of his investigation: Sierra’s influence in Caracas slid insidiously through the veins of the streets, from La Pastora to El Manicomio, seeping into the heart of Catia and the 23rd of January district.

He thought of the temporary, yet strategic, alliances formed in response to that deputy’s misstep: the Tupamaros, the Alexis Vive collective, and the mayor, all schemers in a game of power and survival, aiming to extinguish Sierra’s growing dominance in the West. The city had splintered into domains ruled by modern-day feudal lords, each vying for control, with Sierra as the most ambitious frog leaping towards the metaphorical stake of power.

“Qué culpa tiene la estaca si la rana salta y se ensarta,” Tombo muttered to himself, the old words of Juan Vicente Gómez echoing through the room, now in distant Pittsburgh, a grim reminder of the inevitable fate that awaited those who dared leap too high.

His jaw tightened: justice in Caracas wasn’t just blind; it was handcuffed by the very people who were supposed to uphold it. But Tombo was no coward. He’d seen too much, known too much, to let it lie. He wouldn’t be the frog in the proverb, impaling himself on the stakes laid out by the powerful. No, he would be the one pulling them out, one by one, until the truth lay bare for all to see.

With a renewed sense of determination, Tombo moved away from the window. The dance of the kites in Caracas during Holy Week, now a distant memory, replaced by the cold, hard reality of the fight ahead.

Tombo’s fingers traced the edges of the files, a mountain of paperwork that felt more like walls closing in than mere administrative duty. The commissioner’s words were a distant echo, a veiled threat wrapped in an order: “Organize these, Tombo. Clear your mind of the streets for a while.”

Then, as he sifted through the endless memos and reports, one particular paper caught his attention, a misfiled memo, heavy with implications. It spoke in hushed tones of naval bases and discreet shipments, of generals rubbing shoulders with men who should have been their captives. His eyes devoured the words, the details etching themselves into his memory with the permanence of carved stone. There was no taking notes, no evidence to be left behind, only the silent recital of facts that would lead him down a path many would dare not tread, to the DEA and exile.

The pulse of danger throbbed in his veins as he pieced together covert meetings and clandestine deals. Night after night, he’d stake out the damp docks of Turimiquire, watching shadows exchange briefcases under the cover of darkness. Each step forward was a dance with death, each new discovery a brush against his own mortality. But this was the lifeblood of his dedication, the unyielding desire to see justice prevail.

Exhausted, he felt the pain gnaw at his bones, but the fire within refused to dim. Later, at the right moment, I’ll get the gringos interested, I’m still gathering data, as a simple hobby and to spread disinformation on social media. Back in the sanctuary of his apartment in Pittsburgh, he slumped into the embrace of his recliner, the leather contours greeting him like an old friend. The remote was a familiar weight in his hand as he flicked through channels, searching for the catharsis of fiction. “Jack Ryan” flickered to life on the screen, its protagonist locked in a battle of wits with criminal generals. Tombo’s eyes traced the unfolding action, his heart syncing with the hero’s calculated moves. How many times had he watched this same episode, envisioning himself within its frames? He imagined weaving through the narrative, his own fists delivering the blow that would shatter the spine of the epaulet cartel.

A slow breath escaped him, his eyelids heavy with the toll of his double life. The lines between reality and the on-screen saga blurred as sleep claimed him. There, in the quiet hum of his second-floor abode, Tombo drifted into dreams where he was the architect of justice, the hand guiding the strike against a world mired in corruption and greed.